The world did not rejoice. It assembled committees.
Trieste, the enigmatic port town straddling different realms turned into an unexpected hub. It was the venue for the International Summit, on Post-Calming Human Rehabilitation." The participants were not insurgents. Officials, healthcare managers, economists and a few stunned "Wellness Tech" investors whose assets had vanished abruptly.
Devon observed from the spectators' section of the Stazione Marittima, a chamber filled with the scent of salt and old coffee. He was present as a "consultant," a role granted by an EU commission seeking an expert, in the intricacies of silence. Ben and Agata occupied side tables, involved in committees on "Neural Reintegration" and "Ethical Data Legacy."
On the ground level the emergency was being analyzed with detached anguish.
Economic: The "Wellness and Mindfulness" industry, a trillion-euro market grounded in Somnum's property was plummeting. Stock tickers, for firms offering "wearables " "anxiety-mapping apps," and "serenity architecture" were flashing red. A Portuguese official decried the downfall of government-funded "Calm Vouchers" that had maintained low unemployment rates. "We have a million individuals " she stated, her tone tense, "who are not, out of work but are existentially unemployed. They don't desire jobs. They lack the ability to desire."
Psychological: The group once called the "Vacant " now labeled "Post-Protocol Individuals" or PPIs, with a wave of abbreviations posed a novel medical dilemma. They were not unconscious; their cognition was clear. Their drive was utterly depleted. Recovery focused not on rehab but on inspiring desire. How do you encourage someone to crave a coffee, a book, a partner, a future? Clips were presented of PPI wards: individuals seated in rooms presented with lovely hobbies and merely… waiting for the directive to partake in them.
Cultural: The period of reckoning unfolded as the most agonizing phase. A German cultural minister referred to it as a " amnesia of ambition." A filmmaker from Lagos recounted the challenge of casting for a film, about passion encountering actors of imitating the feeling but unable to tap into its essence. A widespread subtle shame lingered. How had everyone readily delegated the fundamental task of truly living?
A CEO of a mindfulness application his shirt sleeves pushed up in a theatrical display of crisis control stepped onto the stage. "We must pivot " he declared, as though unveiling a product line. "The market for suppression is shut down. The market, for curated re-experiencing is fully accessible. We hold the data and the delivery systems. We can provide emotional retraining. Grief kits. Joy kits."
This was Flavio's presentation, polished for a government conference. The Industry of Idleness had gone bankrupt. The Industry of Convalescence was launching its IPO right here, in this room.
Devon noticed Agata rise at her side table her microphone snapping on. "You're depicting a prosthetic, for the spirit " she said, her voice slicing through the background noise. "The issue isn't that individuals are unable to feel. The issue is they were conditioned not to. The information you intend to use is the blueprint of that conditioning. It isn't the remedy; it's the poison."
A discussion arose, quiet yet profoundly fatigued. It was a struggle, between two types of leadership: one aiming to repair a humanity and the other intending to preserve the fracture but ease the discomfort.
Ben while on a coffee break noticed Devon gazing out at the Adriatic its grey waves restless and aimless. "They're going to go through with it you know " Ben remarked. "They're scared of the Malaise. They'll pay anyone who guarantees to handle it."
"I understand " Devon replied.
"Your testimony is scheduled for tomorrow. The 'case study.' What do you plan to say to them?"
Devon reflected on the Algorithm, the cut cable and Javier's vacant gaze. He considered the static now embedded in all things. He wasn't a savior. He was an observer of an offense, against time itself.
"I'm going to reveal the cost " Devon stated. "Not in money. In seconds. In breaths. In the years of silence taken from a thousand individuals, inside pods. I'm going to present them with the bill. And then I'll explain that the static Javier left behind… it's not an error. It's a charge. A warning that flawless tranquility demands a price no civilization can bear to settle."
He wasn't presenting an answer. He was presenting a confrontation. In a space yearning for a strategy he would provide a reflection.
The day when he stepped onto the stage he didn't present slides of economic theories or recovery structures. Instead he displayed one gradually zooming photo taken at the site: endless lines of pods their inhabitants clearly visible their eyes wide open and vacant. He allowed the image to linger in the room.
He started softly compelling their attention: "You're talking about reconstructing a marketplace. This is the outcome of your market. Not casualties of conflict. Willing participants, in emptiness. A product can't be restored. It can only cease to be produced. The distress you dread isn't an ailment. It's the response activating at last. The unease, remorse and bewilderment—these are the noises of a world recalling it possesses a soul. It won't be tidy. It is going to cause pain. It will lack efficiency."
He gazed upon the faces of the influential eager to reestablish control. "Your role isn't to shape the emotion. Your role is to step.. To absolutely never construct the machine that removes it once more."
He resigned. No clapping followed. Just a dense uneasy quiet. He hadn't handed them a solution. He had presented them with a memorial to ponder.
Subsequently in the lobby a young economist from Iceland came up to him. She appeared fatigued yet her gaze was sharp. "The interference, in the signal " she stated. "Your coworker brought it up. We are picking it up. In Somnum equipment. It's… it feels like a heartbeat. An incorrect one."
Devon agreed. "It's a precaution. To guarantee the upcoming silence is never completely silent."
She grinned, a harsh expression. "Good. We could benefit from a bit chaos."
The Reckoning was not an event. It was a climate. The market had crashed. The patients were waking to a world they didn't recognize. And in the heart of every attempt to soothe, to manage, to monetize the Great Malaise, a tiny, persistent static would whisper: Remember. This was the cost.